Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller (63 page)

Jimmy Long was never found. No one ever looked.

Ben Caldwell, who had shattered both heels, broken his left leg and six ribs in the crash, was well on the mend. Still, he had trouble sleeping these days, partly from the pain, but mostly from the strange dreams. Sometimes he would bolt awake in the darkness, cold and screaming.

Elsewhere, far removed from
this
little corner of the world, a young man out of Winterset—the Little Duke, to you and me—found himself a nice down-home girl in South Dakota. It didn’t last past the fall harvest, but what the hay—those long-distance relationships rarely do. As for those three spunky teenagers who had taken that one-way all the way to Des Moines in their ’58 Sunliner with the top down, well, their lives had taken them to jobs and adventure, after all.

And … oh yes … out in the Nevada desert, an ignoramus named Albrecht down at Area 51, canceled the Project.

~

Lynn placed a log in the hearth. She set her hands together as if in prayer and rubbed them, then threw her thick wool blanket around her as she curled up on the sofa. She stirred her late-night cocoa, and as she did, found herself looking up at the mantelpiece, at the faded photograph of her parents. Her mother had been dead for nearly three months; her father, nearly four. It was hard to believe sometimes. It didn’t seem so long ago when she was just their little girl, sitting in this very same spot between them … time was funny that way.

How well she knew.

Stop it,
she told herself.
You don’t know a damn thing. You don’t.

If only the nightmares would stop.

“Hi, you,” she said, and her smile, while small, was genuine. She had almost forgotten what it felt like.

Big Al leapt up beside her, and she coaxed the kitten to her lap. It settled in, clawing at the wool, and began to purr as she stroked its thick black fur. She had found her three weeks ago in the barn; poor thing had been bones. Ryan had said it was a stupid name for a
girl cat,
as he’d called it (he’d said the same about Abbott and Costello some years back), but Lee-Anne had loved it.

She sipped her hot drink, glancing again at the nondescript package on the coffee table. It had come only yesterday, just as she was leaving for work. Just hours before the storm.

The
storm
—

She had not thought of it—or that night—for so long. She had tried to push it all away. Tried to bury it.

She closed her eyes, still trying to drive it back. But it did no good. It all came back to her in a ruthless wave.

Ray … the fire … the Turn.

And
Brikker.

~

It had been Kain’s idea—his solution, more precisely—but the fact was, it was
she
who had planted the seed in his mind in the first place. The seed of her own fear.

After he had dragged Brikker’s body into the fire (Kain was a wreck, how he had managed was a miracle in itself), he had settled in beside her. Taking her hand in his, he had told her it was the only way … the only way to be sure.

They won’t be coming,
he had told her.
Not for me … not for Brikker. I promise.

Eventually the firemen came; the police and the ambulance shortly thereafter. All they found were three bodies, one with both arms missing, blown off in the explosion. All of them burned beyond recognition.

And only three survivors.

She had told Officer Berridge that her husband had set the blaze, that he and two of his drunken friends had attacked them. She never flinched. Not with Kain hiding in the loft.

As far as she knew, the bodies were buried in a cemetery just past the town limits, barely a mile from the diner. As for that man in the black car, the car that Ben Caldwell had struck trying to save them, she had never heard what had happened to him. She supposed someone had claimed him, someone from some secret government agency, and like all of the dark truths that had been buried that night, he had been buried right along with them.

~

“’Night, Ma.”

“Goodnight, honey.” Her heart sank as she watched the girl limp up the stairs. They would never be able to bury the past … not entirely.

She set her cup down. The cat meowed its disapproval as she shifted her leg, and she shooed it off of her. Big Al looked up at her with big green eyes and a yawn as big as her furry face, and then, without further ado, turned about and nestled in by the fire.

Lynn turned up the oil lamp. She would have to fill it again if the power was out much longer. She set the package along her lap. It was thick and substantially weighty, a simple affair of dark brown paper, neatly wrapped. It was addressed only to OCCUPANT, the printing scribbled in black. No return address.

She opened it carefully and set the wrappings at her feet. The contents had been wrapped in still more of that thick paper, and when she removed it, her heart stirred.

Kain’s
diary
.

It felt strange in her hands … as if she held no business holding it. The thick leather binding, worn about its edges but solid as stone, betrayed its warm heart. She wasn’t sure she could, or even if she should, read it again. But she knew.

He had sent it for that very reason.

She spent the rest of the evening falling inside of it, from beginning to end; it seemed the right thing to do. The stories it kept were not merely random thoughts or impressions; they were dreams, they were nightmares, and for better
and
for worse, they were the sum of his life, and she owed him that. She did.

The clock on the mantel struck eleven. She should have turned in, but she couldn’t. Not now. She soothed her cramped legs in a long stretch, the kitten following her lead. She fixed herself a new cup of cocoa and returned to the sofa. She took a small sip and took up the book, and settled in for the final entry.

~

Dear Lynn,

There is so much I want to say to you. So much … and so little time. It has always been my curse.

By now it should be late November, maybe December. I can’t know how long this will take to get to you. I only pray that it does. I pray a lot these days.

I hope you are well. I hope your children are blessed.

I miss your father; I miss his wisdom. Tell Georgia I miss her … and her fantastic casserole.

You must have so many questions. I can only try to answer them, but I’ll do my best.

I made it to Canada. British Columbia. Big Al was right, cripes, it’s beautiful here (sorry, couldn’t resist). But seriously, it really is gorgeous.

I live in a small place by the water, with tall trees at my door. The mountains would take your breath away. I walk a lot, mostly at night by the ocean, and the air is as fresh as it is in Iowa; a man could spread his wings here. Jimmy called me
winagi cikala kin
(I hope I spelled it right, but I doubt it), and sometimes, I
do
feel like a little ghost, moving on the way I do. But I have to tell you, Lynn … I like this place. I really do.

~

The words stopped there. Just like that, in the middle of the page. What followed immediately below was scribble, scratched out so as to make it entirely unreadable. But then the writing carried on, on the very next page.

~

I took some air for a couple of hours. I had to. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t. So I’ll just say it. I left because I had to, Lynn.

You once wondered if your son was making the right choices. Choosing the right path. Life is never that easy.

For a long time now, as long as I can remember, I have been on a path
—
right or wrong, who is to judge
—
but everything in me tells me it’s right. It has to be right. Your father, God rest him, said I was looking for something … but in truth, I think it found
me.

You see, my grandfather was wrong. All these years, all those lessons … and he was wrong. It
is
our place. It
is
our world. I’m not a religious man, by any stretch, and I know how this might sound … but God put us here for a reason. For Gramps, it was that ship. Or maybe that was just a smaller part of a bigger plan … just so an old man could die, to bring a little boy back from the dead.

Still, it’s a debt I could never repay … but the truth is, I’ve got so
many
debts, Lynn. So
much
to repay.

My life has been so dark. I’ve seen so many horrible things. But I imagine that the darkest thing a person can endure is to live a life without purpose. Our souls deserve better.

I think it was Emerson who said that the surest poison is time. But da Vinci did him one better: Time stays long enough for anyone who will use it.

I have no illusions. The Turn is a dark sword. But I know now that it serves a far greater purpose. Men like Brikker would twist it, to be sure; it’s in their blood. But men like Brikker are right. The Turn is a channel, a road to a future unwritten. A means to an end.

An end of my journey.

Do you remember your dreams these last few weeks? I’m betting that you do; at least, I’m betting you wake up in a cold sweat, night after night, wondering just what it is that has happened. And I’m betting you know. Deep down, we always know.

Not now
—
but after you finish reading
—
that is, when you feel you can
—
take a look inside the back of the diary. Take a good look. I think the nightmares will stop.

I’ve rambled on far too long, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things … things that no apology could ever make right. But this time has served me. It gave me the chance to thank you. For everything. To write you a
“
real
”
letter this time. I know it’s not a kiss … but with you, nothing could come close.

I’m tired, Lynn. I sleep and I dream. I used to dream of baseball … now I try to dream of you. The road has been long, and I can count the days I have left. But I need you to know that the pain is gone. My head is clear. No more static, no more blackouts. I can walk down the street with a smile. Everyone I meet is a mystery to me now. For the first time in my life, I feel free. I feel normal.

It’s raining now. It never breaks for very long. The rain out here is as soft as velvet, and when it sweeps in from the ocean and throws a blanket over the mountains, it has a misty quality that I swear is almost musical; if you crack the window and listen closely, it’s like a whisper in your ear. Like a best friend … like a lover. Still, sometimes, when it comes at night, pitter-pattering on the roof like old bones, I wake from my dreams in a shiver, and I lie in the dark and I wonder where I am … but I don’t fear it any longer.

~

No goodbye; no valediction of any kind.

Lynn set the diary in her lap. She felt numb. The book slipped to her side.

She wept.

~

A bitter wind rattled the windows, and she woke in a start. The oil had long since burned away, the room barely aglow from the coals in the hearth. She moved from her chair to the warmth of the fire, and the cat, its slumber disturbed, stretched its legs and clawed at the rug beneath it. It rubbed against her, its back arcing, and when it looked up at her with deep dozy eyes the way it did, she paused, thinking of Pep. She scratched its fur and stroked it behind an ear, and the purring kitten began to drool.

“
Ma?
”

“Honey?”

“It’s so cold up here.”

Lynn fetched her daughter another blanket and brought it up to her room.
Her
old room. She had forgotten how cold it got when the north wind blew.

“Better?”

The girl nodded. “Thanks, Ma.”

Lynn kissed her on the forehead.

“Why you still up?” Lee said. “You look so tired.”

Still up,
Lynn thought, and it was sadly amusing in its way.
I haven’t slept in weeks. If she only knew.

“Sweet dreams,” she said, forcing a smile as she tucked her in. She closed the door behind her.

She filled the lamp with oil, relit the wick, and then curled up with the kitten near the fire. It was late now, nearly midnight. She stared at the diary.

You already know,
she thought.
You’ve always known.

She supposed Ryan did, too … and Ben Caldwell. How many others? How many were sitting up right now, thinking these very thoughts?

She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. She held them that way for the longest time, almost certain she couldn’t do this.

But she had to. She had to be sure.

She opened the back of the diary. A small envelope, pressed and folded flat, had been taped inside. The book’s cover was so thick she had never even noticed it.

With a trembling hand, Lynn Bishop opened the envelope.

~

Vancouver
Sun,
October 29, 1962

U.S. AIR STRIKES TARGET CUBAN MISSILE BASES

Moscow Threatens Retaliation

Vancouver
Sun,
November 1, 1962

U.S. CONTINUES TO POUND CUBA

Castro Requests Aid From Khrushchev

Vancouver
Sun,
November 2, 1962

U.S. DEMANDS IMMEDIATE WITHDRAWAL OF SOVIET MISSILES

Khrushchev To Kennedy: “
We will defend Cuba
”

Vancouver
Sun,
November 3, 1962

SOVIETS FIRE ON U.S. BLOCKADE

USS
Grand Canyon
Sunk By Russian Sub

Vancouver
Sun,
November 4, 1962

U.S. TARGETS HAVANA, HUNDREDS KILLED

American Warships Engage Russian Destroyers

Vancouver
Sun,
November 6, 1962

CUBA STRIKES UNITED STATES

Cape Canaveral Destroyed In “Unprovoked” Nuclear Attack